


goddamned heroes

by winchestersinthedrift



Series: wincest drabbles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift





	goddamned heroes

The worst part about fixing themselves up after a hunt was that it had to be done right in the same shitty moments when the adrenaline was not just wearing off but dropping right through the floor, running out in shaky limbs and the weird inability to draw a full breath. Scratches and small gashes could wait till they’d calmed right down, sure, but other things - gashes and bulletholes and flesh sliced too cleanly through - couldn’t wait, had to be done no matter how fingers were still trembling or how fast breath came. 

This time Dean took half of a tree branch full in the chest and nothing went deep, Sam had a bad few moments till that was clear, but the whole right side is pretty much cut up to ribbons, huge splinters of wood stuck down into muscle, a big chunk of skin sloughed right off down to the third layer. The whole thing’s bleeding like a fucker, bad enough that they aren’t even looking at the other places he’s hurt. 

Dean is looking, though, at the way one of Sam’s ankles is discoloured and swollen so big already that he’s had to take off his shoe, and at the gash at the back of Sam’s head, blood matted thick in the messy dark hair. Dean can’t stand it at all when Sam gets hit on the head, can hardly even stand to see blood on him at all. He _certainly_ can’t stand to have Sam fussing over what’s basically some bad cuts when he needs to get ice on that foot if he wants to have even a chance of walking out of here. 

‘Sam,’ he says, through his teeth, because it’s not gonna kill him but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like fuck, ‘stop being a goddamned hero and turn around, lemme look at your head. And we got some cold packs in my duffel, I think, if you – _fuck_ – kick it here I’ll -’

And Sam just says ‘shut up Dean,’ very quiet, partly because he can hear the tight panic in his brother’s voice and he knows it, understands it, because it hammers in his blood every time he sees Dean hurt, but also quiet because Dean’s chest really is pretty bad and Sam isn’t quite past the point of pure visceral terror. He’s kneeling between Dean’s legs, jacket off and tshirt sweated through, blood from his scalp crawling down the side of his neck, and his mouth is open and breathing hard because he can’t get enough breath, he can’t fill his lungs at all cause he’s crashing from adrenaline and Dean is bleeding under him, he’s _still bleeding_. 

Sam has both giant hands plastered hard against the worst of it, gauze and blood and terror, and Dean’s gone a shade of pale that makes Sam want to puke, because he’s seen it before and never on days worth living, but he’s still fighting against Sam’s hands, feebly now, mumbling about cold packs, and Sam is pretty much losing it. 

‘Dean,’ he says again, ‘shut up, sit _still_ ,’ because the blood isn’t stopping and it probably won’t so long as his brother struggles. Then, in a different tone, soft like worn sandpaper and just as used up, he says, ‘Dean,’ and he keeps his hands pressed hard against Dean’s chest and he leans forward and so so slowly he brushes his face across Dean’s throat, kisses him wet and brittle-desperate and Dean stills under his lips, opens his mouth and presses his thighs together around Sam’s hips and they breath against each other’s faces, hot and ragged and shaking. 

‘Goddamned hero,’ Dean says, soft, but he lets Sam finish.


End file.
